


a hole where your heart lies

by words-writ-in-starlight (Gunmetal_Crown)



Series: passive aggressive kencyrath AU collection [1]
Category: Chronicles of the Kencyrath - P. C. Hodgell, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: (no I won't), F/M, Gen, I will stop when someone else reads these books and talks to me about them, Welcome to Night Vale AU, watch me passive-aggressively fill this tag with nonsense AU content, you definitely need at least cursory familiarity with WTNV but probably not with Kencyrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 11:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16303937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gunmetal_Crown/pseuds/words-writ-in-starlight
Summary: Torisen is the Voice of Night Vale and today, apparently, he's in two places at once.





	a hole where your heart lies

**Author's Note:**

> FINE, okay, no one else reads these books, I guess I'll just turn out a bunch of random AU's for my own self to read. Self-indulgence is the order of the day, you're not the boss of me.
> 
> Originally posted [on my blog](http://words-writ-in-starlight.tumblr.com/post/179026577609/hi-one-time-i-think-you-mentioned-a-wtnv-au-of) and normally I'd class it as too short to go upon AO3, but there are like FORTY FICS in this tag and a not-insignificant percentage of the total word count is MY FICS and I might as well commit, okay, I might as well just _do it_ and come to terms with the reality of the person I have chosen to be and the obscure-ass books I have chosen to love, this is my life and these are the things I choose to spend my time on and there's nothing either of us can do about it, okay. I hope you read this whole sentence in a kind of desperate rambling tone because I've written so many application essays that I feel kind of _spiritually_ desperate and rambling right now.

“Welcome back, listeners,” Tori says absently, picking up the post-it note that Burr, the longest-lived intern in Night Vale history since Tori himself, left on his desk during the weather.  “I have received a message from Sheth—you know, the deputy sheriff—reminding everyone that the dog park is strictly off-limits, even to–”  Tori stops short, frowning, and leans away from the microphone to flag down Rowan, his audio expert.   _Is this a mistake?_  Tori mouths to her, and she shakes her head, expressionless.  “…hm,” Tori says slowly.  “The dog park is strictly off-limits, even to our honored Voice of Night Vale.  I’m reasonably sure that I’ve been at the office all day—one moment, please, listeners. We’ll be right back after these messages.”

He hits a button to play an ad for Rosie’s Pizza and sharply flags down Rowan.  She doesn’t look up from her desk, just lifts one half of her headphones away from her ears and speaks, her other hand moving smoothly across a notepad.

“I’ll have Burr call Sheth, sir,” Rowan says.

“Thank you, Rowan,” Tori says.  “It’s probably nothing.  That sandstorm the other day must have just blown in some mirages.  But just to be sure.”

“Yes, sir.  You’re live again in ten seconds, sir.”                                

Tori goes back to his mic and tries to sound calm and collected as he talks about the book sale at the library—not something to be toyed with, serious business, but he can’t keep his mind on it, and has to reread the last line when he loses track of his place.  Tori doesn’t like being mistaken for other people, really he doesn’t.  Normally no one mistakes him for anyone.  No one else in Night Vale looks quite like he does, with his eerie silver eyes and his black and silver hair, his sturdy black coat and his scarred hands.  It’s not about wanting people to know who he is, it’s just…

It’s probably nothing.  One time an out-of-season rainstorm blew in and half the town swore blind that the sands to the north had turned into a crashing sea—even Rose of Rosie’s, who no one calls Rosie and everyone agrees is too sensible to live here.  It wouldn’t be unheard of for a sandstorm to blow in doubles.  Tori is worried for no reason.

The phone call that comes in just as he’s starting to wrap up puts paid to that rare burst of willful optimism with a handful of words.

Tori is the one who answers the phone, because they’re on a break—it’s a weekend, they’re doing a double-length show and given the sandstorm they’re doing a second weather report.

“Mister Tori,” the voice says excitedly, “there’s someone new in town, did you hear?”

There’s only a few people in town who call him Mister Tori, because Tori thinks it’s ridiculous.  Rowan stubbornly sticks to  _sir_ , but even Burr finally cracked and calls him by name.  Tori tucks the pen in his hand into his hair and says, “No, Lyra, I didn’t.  Who is it?”

“I don’t know!” Lyra says gleefully.  She’s fourteen and has spent the last eight months living in the Circle K, under the possibly dubious protection of her great grandmother, who is both ancient and formidable, but it doesn’t seem to have done anything to dent her occasionally foolish good humor.  And Tori has to admit that he’s enjoyed seeing Caldane fume over his daughter being out of reach.  “All I know is that he’s  _handsome_ , and his hair is  _perfect_ , and he looks like he’s been in a fight! We’re trying to send him to Old Man Kindrie.”

“You know Kindrie’s only twenty-six,” Tori says automatically, because he always says it.  Kindrie says it doesn’t really bother him, but it’s become something of a habit—no one knows who Tori’s talking about, if he doesn’t say  _Old Man Kindrie_ , so he always ends up addressing him on the show as  _Old Man Kindrie, who’s actually twenty-six_.  If this stranger is beat to hell, there are worse places to send him.  Is Kindrie’s little apartment above the bookstore actually getting visited by angels?  Up for debate, like most things.  Is Kindrie better than a hospital and far more likely to take payment in pretty broken glass and knitwear?  Absolutely.

“I  _know_ ,” Lyra huffs irritably. “ _God_ , Mister Tori, I’m not a  _kid_.” Tori politely doesn’t answer that. “But you should talk to him and tell him to go to Kindrie, he won’t leave.”

Tori pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Lyra, you know I’m at work, right?”

“Come  _on_ ,” Lyra half whines. Because Lyra is a  _child_  and children  _whine_ , Tori reminds himself sternly.  Just because he never did it, just because—just because any child in his father’s house learned not to whine right quick doesn’t mean Lyra’s doing anything wrong, even if it grates on his nerves.

He agrees half to shut her up.  “Sure, fine.  Put him on the phone.”

There’s a brief scuffling noise, and a strident note of Lyra’s voice above another, lower one, and then someone else is on the line, someone whose voice isn't a man's at all, someone who's a little raspy with exhaustion and thirst, but strong and cool and faintly husky, and Tori immediately knows everything about the speaker because some things never change.

“I _told_ you, I'm not a boy," the voice says away from the phone, sharp and frustrated, "I'm—hell with it. Is this the, uh—what, fuck—is this the Voice of Night Vale?  I’m looking for my brother, can you place some kind of ad or something?  I don’t have any money, but I’ll figure something out.”

Tori swallows.  He can hear the weather ending behind him and he can see Rowan trying to flag him down and he can’t seem to move, the hairs on the nape of his neck rising like he’s standing where lightning is about to strike.  

“Hel _lo_?” the voice demands.

“Jame?” Tori finally manages to say.

There’s a long pause.  

His sister's lightning bolt finds ground like the wrath of management, with one word.

“ _Tori?”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hey listen.
> 
> I have nothing to say for myself.


End file.
